“Are you my Arabian prince?”
My jaw tenses. I want to make a joke about how fucking stupid that shit is, but I don’t want to kill the moment. Too curious to see what’s next. Too excited. Still, I gotta say something.
“My mom was born in Mexico City and my dad is from Indiana,” I say.
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on. Don’t be so sensitive. It’s a fantasy, okay?”
Time goes sideways. My head fogs. Nope. Nope —
My eyes flash open. Even though it’s hot in my bedroom, I shudder like I’m freezing, and I wince. I’m not trying to think about that.
I glance at my phone and press the button. 3:04 a.m. I sigh. Not a good hour to be up. Especially when you have your first day of work the next day. Food truck. With Jordan, who is — I dunno. His mom was a trip, but she won’t be there. That’s good at least.
I spent the night studying up on how to run a food truck. Lots of YouTube videos. I have no idea, so I watched a few. Jordan will have to fill me in on the rest, which I’m worried about. Based on our conversation earlier, he’s not exactly the best communicator.
I lie in bed until I can’t stare at the ceiling anymore, can’t explore for another second the slat of light that runs diagonally across my ceiling from the moonlight. Will I be able to see it shift if I stare at it all night? When does it disappear, and how?
I get up, go into the kitchen, pour a glass of water, and chug it down. Then I wander outside and sit with my feet in the pool. It’s not yet bath temperature; it will be in about a month.
I look up at the sliver of moon through the saguaros that flank our pool. Too bright for stars here, and I wish I could see them, wish I could ask them questions.
Like, what the fuck was that with Kevin?
It wasn’t cool, the whole thing, to the point I can’t really even — I don’t know.
I need a do-over. I’m so stupid.
I slosh my feet through the still-cool water. The ripples undulate, and the reflections of the cacti shimmer. I stare and stare until the ripples subside, and once the saguaros are back in sight and steady, I shake my head.
Nope. I’m a warrior.
Mom and Dad don’t agree on much, but they both have pretty much the same take on that; they just say it in different ways.
Mom always says all sorts of shit goes down in the world, and it’s up to me to decide how to take it. The one way you’re sure to be unhappy is to frown your way through life, she says, and she’s right. Always look for the bright, vibrant color through the darkness. It’s always there, but sometimes hard to see.
So I had my first time. Last night. I guess I’m a man now, right? Shit. Doesn’t feel — shut up. Shut up shut up. You got some. You’re being stupid. Dramatic. Dad says it’s okay to be gay; just don’t be a pussy. He’s a comedian and makes gay jokes in his act down in Colorado Springs, but it’s all in fun. He even has a joke about a guy licking his balls and how that’s one of life’s delicacies. That was sort of freaky when I heard him do it. I don’t exactly get my dad on this stuff, but I know he loves me. But I also know if he heard these thoughts I’m having, he’d screw up his face and tell me to shut the fuck up with that pansy-ass shit. Warrior up. Warrior up, dude.
He’s right. I smile. I breathe until my jaw unclenches. I have the power to change my thoughts. Like I did when we moved here.
I’m eight. We’ve just moved to Dobson Ranch, a suburban neighborhood in western Mesa near the canal. We had lived in central Phoenix. I’m tossing a Nerf football with my neighbor friend, Skeeter, and we’re talking about going to the park and waiting for the ice-cream truck so we could get Drumsticks. These other kids I don’t know so well come around, and they say, “’Sup, Skeeter.”
“’Sup,” he says.
I say, “’Sup,” too.
“We’re gonna hit the park so we catch Mister Softee.”
“Cool,” Skeeter says, and he tosses the football to me. I throw it over the side fence and say, “Cool,” too.
“You’re not coming, Maximo,” this one kid says. He has a blond crew cut and he’s short and round. He says “Maximo” like he’s saying “dog shit.” I didn’t know he even knew my name.
“You need to stay here in case the migrant-worker truck comes and your whole family gets a job.”
Everyone laughs. Skeeter too. He laughs.
A smile crawls over my face without my even trying. I laugh too. And then they all run off, leaving me there. I just stand there in the middle of the street until a pickup truck honks at me and I have to move. I go inside and play Grand Theft Auto. I don’t tell my mom. Next time I see Skeeter, we toss the ball again and we don’t talk about it. And it’s understood that when those kids come by, they’re gonna go to the park, and I won’t.
I grimace for just a nanosecond ’til I catch myself. Then I smile until I feel better. I mean, there are terrible, racist-ass people out there. But also good people. Who am I gonna focus on?
Shit. I’m better than that. That’s about those kids. I have the power to change my thoughts. Always did. I have the power to smile through all this.
No one gets the best of Super Max.
I’m sitting on the dirt in the front yard, watching the sun rise over the palm trees, waiting for Max. I look at my phone. 5:08. He’s late.
As the hot morning breeze washes over me, I lean back on my elbows, and I wince as one of them hits a sharp pebble. My poetry journal is by my side. I’m bringing it because there’s a part of me that hopes this isn’t going to work, that we’ll go out and no one will want our food and I’ll be able to sit there and write poems, which is a weird thing to want since it would lead to our homelessness but there you have it. There’s a part of me that hopes Max doesn’t show up. A big part. He won’t show, and I won’t have a partner for the truck, and I won’t have to go out and face people who are desiring good food and good service when I have zero experience with either. That’s the worst. That not only will I be letting my dad down, my mom, myself. I’ll be letting strangers down too.
A Dodge Durango pulls up and Max hops out of the driver’s side. He runs his hands through his wavy black hair, and as he walks over to where I’m sitting, he gives that toothy Guy Smiley smile, raising his killer dimples. Some people are just blessed with good everything, and Max is definitely one of them. He’s wearing a simple blank T-shirt and hideous tan cargo shorts that I would never in a million years be caught dead in, and yet somehow it just works on him.
“What up?” he says.
I stay seated. “What up,” I say back.
He stuffs his hands into his shorts pockets. “So how does this work?”
I laugh. It just … works. There’s a big fridge in the garage with supplies. We’ll load the truck with them. We’ll drive the truck to Ahwatukee, to the Sunday morning farmers’ market. We’ll ask someone where to park. We’ll put up the whiteboard menu, we’ll turn on the truck’s power, and we’ll take money and sell food.
“Okay, good talk,” Max says. This is about my least favorite dude bro saying. Someday I’m going to mace a dude bro when he says that to me. For effect.
“Are you going to tell me anything?” he asks.
I have no idea what to tell, to be honest. Yesterday was our first day ever. I got nothing.
“Blind leading the blind,” I say, and because I haven’t stood up, he sits down next to me in the dirt.
“That’s rough, dude.”
I shrug. “Yup.” I want to send him away. He seems reasonably harmless for a dude bro, but I want to send him back to whatever dude bro farm he was raised on.
“So …” he says, waiting for me to do something, I guess. I truly don’t know what to do.
I trace a circle in the dirt with a tiny piece of stick. “You should probably go and find something better to do,” I say. “Which would be almost anything. I mean. My mom pretty much cornered you, and it’s not like two guys with no experience are going to exactly kill it. Have you ever even been on a food truck?”